


tumblr whump prompts

by thegoldenrin



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28941327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoldenrin/pseuds/thegoldenrin
Summary: these are all the whump prompts I posted to my Tumblr collected! still ongoing so if you wanna jump on these or the smut prompts go right ahead @azurelacrima, tho fair warning I've still got quite a lot to work through plus other fics so it might take some time xxNo. 87: "Father" + Maccontains: harry macgyver's funeral, grief, child abandonment, dark thoughts, hurt no comfort
Relationships: Angus MacGyver & Harry MacGyver, Angus MacGyver & James MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Jack Dalton/Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Wilt Bozer & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 31





	1. Funeral + Mac

**Author's Note:**

> these are all the whump prompts I posted to my Tumblr collected! still ongoing so if you wanna jump on these or the smut prompts go right ahead @azurelacrima, tho fair warning I've still got quite a lot to work through plus other fics so it might take some time xx
> 
> No. 87: "Father" + Mac
> 
> contains: harry macgyver's funeral, grief, child abandonment, dark thoughts, hurt no comfort

If Mac had to recount the days immediately leading up to his grandfather’s funeral, he wouldn’t be able to answer for the life of him. He knows that he’s on emergency leave, that he’d hugged Charlie before getting on a military plane back to LA; he knows that it’s a fifteen-hour flight from Kabul, and that he was greeted back at his grandfa- _his_ house in Mission City by the Bozers. Mac knows all of this, in the same way that he knows Switzerland has four official languages and mandrills are native to central Africa - as facts that exist, but distantly and impersonally. 

It should probably worry him, the way everything feels disconnected and strangely static. He goes through the motions of getting up, picking out his suit, getting dressed, having breakfast - mostly at Bozer’s insistence - brushing his teeth and entering the car as his best friend’s father drives them to the cemetery silently. Throughout it all, Mac doesn’t once think about where he’s going, or what that means. 

His mind is strangely empty of equations and random strings of half-thought out info-dumps. Mac’s heard of white noise machines before, read an article on them during his time at MIT, and wonders if this is what it’d feel like if such a machine were to be modified to replicate its effects through direct electric impulses in the brain. 

“Mac”, Bozer’s mom whispers quietly, leaning over the console from her front seat, “we’re here, sweetheart.”

_Where is here_ , Mac almost asks, before he throws a look outside and sees the sign. _Oh. Right._

Harry MacGyver hadn’t been particularly religious, not beyond the celebrating of Christmas - although that holiday has been so commercialised over the years that Mac supposes it’s hardly an indicator of religious denomination at this point. He thinks he might remember a vague conversation about Barbara MacGyver, his paternal grandmother, being the occasional church-goer, but beyond that Mac really knows very little about her. The withered gravestone next to his grandfather’s more visibly recent one and the numbers on it are really the only things he could say about her with complete assurance. 

There’s a priest, and some people, most of which Mac knows - he shakes some hands, accepts condolences, and nods along to a recollection or two. But the lump in his throat doesn’t seem to allow more than a word or two to slip past. 

Mac doesn't know how long the service goes on for. His grandpa hadn’t wanted a big affair around it, no church or speeches, only a simple burial. That’s what Bozer’s father had said, at least, when - well. Sometime. It’s very fitting, he supposes. Not much of a fan of the spotlight, even now. 

He’s ashamed to admit that not a single word the priest says registers, not until a warm, dark-skinned hand squeezes at his upper arm, clad in a black suit-jacket Mac didn’t know he owned. “We’ll give you some time”, he murmurs softly, blinking at Mac with worried brown eyes slightly reddened by tears. Mac nods numbly, thinks with some surprise that he can’t feel the tell-tale burn in his at all. 

And then he stands there, on a sunny summer day, mid-July, in front of Harry MacGyver’s gravestone. It’s covered lovingly in a broad assortment of flowers; two colourful rose-wreaths on either side from the Bozers, with pictures of his grandfather’s likeness attached to their middle, smiling fondly into the camera. A bouquet of lilies and chrysanthemums, as far as he can tell, from the few army friends he’d still talked to regularly. More roses, scattered across the length of the grass; and there- 

Mac frowns, slowly bending down to look at the unfamiliar flora. It’s a nondescript little thing, hidden almost behind the leg of the metal stand holding the wreath on the left. A delicate-looking bundle of flowers, with rounded blue petals and a thin stem. _Forget-me-nots_.

Objectively, there are dozens of other explanations. Quite literally dozens, with the amount of people present at the funeral. And yet, somehow, something in Mac’s brain suddenly _clicks_ , sinking back slowly onto the ground one shaky hand coming up to press over his mouth desperately, so hard it almost hurts, but not as much as his heart shredding itself into a hundred little pieces deep in his chest. 

The sound that tears itself out of his throat isn’t even human sounding, a low, guttural moan of pain, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists as Mac starts unconsciously rocking himself back and forth on the grass. He thinks he might be whimpering, might be crying, eyes pressed shut so tightly it makes bursts of colour explode in front of his lids, but in that moment nothing registers, nothing but the utterly overwhelming crest of agony. 

Forget-me-nots. His father might as well have signed his name on a piece of paper, dark blue ink embellished with the funny little swing he does - did? What does Mac know of the man anymore - on the loop of his J’s, James MacGyver, sending his deepest condolences for your loss, son, but not deep enough to actually get off his ass and _say it to his face_. 

It didn’t matter during the funeral, Mac didn’t even notice - his dad’s absence is second nature at this point. A simple fact of life, like the fact that Mac’s blood type is AB negative or that he shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen even under maximum security supervision or that grandpa’s dead and James MacGyver evidently couldn’t be bothered to come to his own father’s funeral in person. 

Mac keens into the spit-slick palm of his hand, eyes and nose running, feels like the biggest, most pathetic _mess_ of a human being, unmoored and uncertain and suddenly starkly aware of the fact that he’s alone now. He’s completely alone, has no family left that gives a rat’s ass about him, except maybe the Bozers - but if his own father got sick enough of Mac to the point where even Harry dying couldn’t make him come back, then who’s to say it can’t happen with them?

_Wild animals can reject their offspring for a myriad of reasons. With pandas especially, it’s not an uncommon phenomenon, choosing to nurse only one cub to ensure survival. In rare cases, weaker offspring in other species may be rejected as well, if they aren’t suited to survival in the wild. Humans are, in essence, only slightly more evolved animals._

“I’m - I’m sorry, grandpa”, he rasps, voice broken and tear-wet, curled in on himself on the ground like the hunch of his back will do anything to protect him against his grief. “I couldn’t... I didn’t... I _tried_ , okay?! I tried, and, and, it wasn’t enough, it was never enough, n-not to b-bring him back-”

He sits there, sobbing, babbling, in front of the grave of a man who’s been like a father to him in all but name for the past ten years, and now rests far away in a place Mac can’t reach. 


	2. MacGyver + MacGyver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no. 36 "bleeding out" + Mac
> 
> contains: Graphic injury, hemothorax, gsw, au of season 2 finale, a lot of hurt and N O comfort, might get some comfort in a follow up tho depending how this goes :)
> 
> ok. ok. ok. ...not ok  
> the honey hc is all kel's (@saintsurvivor) so show sum looove <3333 if u scream or ugly-cry pls tell me I will apologise but also probably take great pleasure in the fact cause that's what I was going for with this xx

Quiet footsteps. No shots. Not Jonah’s goons then, or anyone else’s. No screaming either - most likely a Phoenix employee.

“I wouldn’t take another step if I were you. That weak floor board is actually a pressure plate attached to an IED.” James MacGyver hasn’t survived this long by relying on most likelies.

The person hesitates. James smiles to himself - anyone worth their salt will know immediately that’s nothing but utter bull. And he takes great care not to employ people not worth their salt. An annoyed little sigh, followed by a low, exasperated voice. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe - take another step and we’ll see”, he offers, half of his attention once again taken up by the improvised safe-cracker he’s rigged up. The beginnings of a thought niggle at the back of his mind, have been since the moment he heard that voice. James is completely certain that if this man doesn’t work for him, they’ve at least met before - even if he can’t quite put his finger on the when and where yet. Keep him talking, then. “What do you want?”

“Director Webber sent me here to speak with Oversight”, the man answers, and James’ frown melts straight off his face along with his confusion. He _does_ know that voice, even if only through staticky microphone feed, and he _does_ know that man - because standing behind him at Matty’s behest is his _son_.

Only decades of covert ops training and the near robotic ability to put all of his emotions in a box buried so far in the recesses in his mind he almost believes they don’t exist at all keep James rolling with the script; that, and the sheer surrealism of the situation. “Oh.” It doesn’t even sound like his own voice to his ears, or maybe like his own voice if it came through hundreds of tons of thick sludge. “Then you got him.”

And then he turns around, and feels all the breath being punched right of his chest.

Angus - Angus looks good. Short blonde hair swept to the side, a sharp jawline and narrow face, beautiful blue eyes that look like an almost exact carbon copy of Ellen’s. Washed-out blue flannel, an old, beat-up leather jacket he thinks might’ve belonged to Harry, sand-brown trousers - he never did grow out of James’ own horrible sense of fashion, then, though with his father as the only hands-on influence that doesn’t surprise him in the least. James can picture vividly what his own mother would’ve said, had she ever gotten to see her grandson in the flesh - _Jimmy, what in the Lord’s name are you feeding that boy?! Scraps and bones?_ She always was a fusser.

_“Dad?!”_

It’s quiet, faint, so much so that it almost gets lost in the space between them - but it tears James right out of his daydreaming reverie, with the sharp realisation that this is _real_. Angus is _real._ He’s standing in front of James, breathing and talking and staring, unmistakably a flesh and bone person, not a grainy image on security footage or a glimpse through a window. James hasn’t seen his son in - it must’ve been going on fifteen years, now, he realises with a start, almost wants to blink in shock. It hadn’t _felt_ like fifteen years, not at the time, not when he didn’t have to look at the hurt and disbelief in technicolor.

A dark shadow moves in the entryway to the living room, right behind his son, and James reacts without thinking, shouts at Angus to duck as he lunges for the first thing he can reach - some ridiculous decorative gold ball that he launches it at their assailant, not even tangentially fazed by the gunshot anymore. It’s a perfect hit, because of course it is - James isn’t an amateur, and they need to move _now_. He grabs the Chinese restaurant menu more as an afterthought, already scrambling for Angus, who’s still curled on the floor, god only knows why, it’s _time to go-_

But Angus isn’t moving. _Why isn’t Angus moving?_ James pulls at his arm, intending to drag him up and out of the line of fire, and recoils when all it produces is a blood-curdling _scream of pain._

James feels the blood drain out of his face, out of his body, leaving only coldness and a horrible sense of dread. It happens as if in slow motion; he turns around, categorises what he sees. Angus, sprawled across the ground, brown leather jacket pulled taut between broad shoulders, a tiny hole blown inwards about just underneath where James can make out the edge of a shoulder blade. He’s seen wounds just like this hundreds of times, treated some of them himself, but all James can do is freeze and stare, think no. _No. This isn’t happening._

Angus convulses underneath his hand, with a low moan of pain, and James knows that it _is_ happening. His child has been shot right in front of him, shot in the back, because he didn’t see the bullet coming because he was _talking to James-_

He tears his phone out of his jacket faster than he can even think to, dials a number completely by muscle memory and falls to his knees next to his son, left hand running over the heaving chest hovering just inches off the floor. No blood, no exit wound; small mercies in that James has one less injury to put pressure on. Matty picks up his call, but he doesn’t let her get in a single word edgewise; _“Medevac to my location, now!”_ , and hangs up again, both phone and menu lying forgotten on the floor.

“Angus, hey, hey buddy - c’mon, turn around for me, just like that”, he coos, already shucking off his leather jacket to tear at the buttons of his flannel. He’s only wearing a thin grey shirt underneath but he could be buck naked for all he cares right now, would strip down every single last article of clothing if only it meant his son would stop looking at him like that, if only it stopped the slow drip of red steadily blooming on the carpet. Angus moans lowly, now lying on his side on the floor, and James doesn’t dare to try and get his son’s jacket off too, instead pressing his shirt straight to the wound over his layers.

“H- _hurts_ ”, Angus moans, blue eyes clouded with tears and fluttering. It’s like a million little stabs right to James’ heart, not to mention the burning behind his own eyes. “I know”, he soothes, exerting every single last inch of iron control he has to keep from breaking out into a screaming and crying panic. It wasn’t - _it wasn’t supposed to happen like this_ , they were supposed to sit down together and talk about things, James could explain to his son that he was only ever trying to protect him, _that it was all for the best_ , and then they would to work together, father and son at the Phoenix- “I know, Angus, I know, just hold on for me. Okay? Hold on. Medevac’s coming, they’re almost here. I know gunshot wounds hurt, but you’re gonna be okay-”

Something to the back of the room makes a quiet shifting noise, followed by a groan, and James curses a blue streak in every single language he knows. He can’t afford to waste any time, needs to keep pressure on his son’s wound, but then again being shot a second time will be a much more immediate end than bleeding out. He mutters a quick reassurance to Angus, although he can’t be sure how much of it reaches through the haze of pain, and springs to his feet to punch out their newly awakened companion, this time for _good._

He slithers back into place next to his son, reaching for the flannel and pressing it back onto the entry wound, flinching at the heart-breaking noise of agony it draws from Angus. James’ mouth is open already, lips forming the beginnings of a random string of reassurances and pleas when his mind registers the horrifying, rasping sound of his son’s sucking breath, and his entire world seems to collapse.

“No”, he breathes, eyes wide and tear-filled, shaking his head as if that will help anything, as if he could avert the unimaginable through sheer force of will. “No, _no no no no- no_ , Angus, breathe for me, _please, Angus_ -!”

“Ca-a-an’t - I ca-” His chest shudders against James’ thigh, mouth hanging open as he sucks in desperate, wheezy breaths, and even just from the sound of it James can tell that it isn’t working, no matter how much of the gas he pulls in. _Traumatic hemothorax. The bullet must’ve punctured a lung-_

James grasps his son’s face in shaky hands, strokes calloused and age-worn thumbs across a smooth cheek. Blue eyes shift desperately from side to side, as if trying to scan his face, memorise every mole and wrinkle. And maybe he is, because Angus hasn’t seen him in fifteen years either, didn’t even recognise his voice. _What have I done._

Colours and shapes blur in James’ vision until he forcibly blinks burning hot tears out of his eyes, feels them run down across his cheeks until they drip down onto Angus’ face. He takes a shaky breath, chest feeling like it’s going to cave any second under the pressure, something James might even welcome at this point. God, if only he could switch-

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry-”, he whispers, almost fully enveloping Angus’ shaking and heaving frame in his arms, half-laying him out across his lap. God, he feels so fucking _useless_ , knows that there’s fuck all he can do to really, safely help until the EMTs arrive on scene. Maybe if he had the time to rig something together, maybe if he could leave Angus for more than five seconds in full assurance that he wouldn’t come back to a corpse, maybe if he had been a decent fucking father to his son, then maybe James MacGyver wouldn’t be holding him in his arms and feel the life draining out of him steadily. Maybe, maybe.

Angus blinks dazed blue eyes up at him, sucks in another short breath that ends on a wet cough. James’ chest clenches in sympathy, even as he can hear the blood pounding in his ears. “Yo- you used to - t-to call me tha-”, he gasps, breaking out into another coughing fit that shakes his whole frame in James’ arms. “Hon- hone-”

“Yeah, honey”, James whimpers, dropping their foreheads together as he feels the flannel bloom with sickening warmth against the shaking palm of his right hand. He can feel the struggle of his son’s breath, the way his chest won’t lift properly into it on the left side. Because his pleural cavity is filling with blood, _penetrating thoracic trauma_ , James can see the mechanics of it playing out in front of his mind’s eye with gruesome detail. “I did, honey, I used to - I’d always call you that, and to your mom you were her sweetie... but I thought your hair reminded me more of honey, you know? It seemed so fitting, golden and sweet-”

Angus convulses on a wet, hacking chuckle that tapers off in a painful moan, edges of his mouth twitching into a weak smile. “I - I rem-e-mber”, he groans, a thin line of glimmering wetness tracing back into his hairline from the corner of his eyes. His blue, blue eyes, so much like Ellen’s, James wonders if this what she loo-

_No._ No, he can’t afford to think of that now, their son needs him to be strong.

“You do?”, he whispers, having to squeeze his eyes closed for several seconds to regain his footing. When he opens them again, a thin sheen of pinkish red coats white teeth underneath blue tinged lips, cold horror spreading in his chest. _Where the hell are those EMTs?!_

“That’s - that’s wonderful, honey, of course you do, you remember everything. You’re brilliant, always were, a brilliant, loving kid. I - I _love_ you, honey, you know that, right?” His voice breaks on the word love, and Angus’ hands clench against his thigh with a low mewl. “And... I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Angus. I should never - I couldn’t-”

“’s okay”, Angus gasps, cutting James’ words off halfway through, even if he honestly has no idea where that was going. Where it should have long ago, maybe. “Okay now, d-dad, it’s okay.”

James feels a faint frown pulling at his face, eyes darting searchingly over his son’s face. Angus looks - pale, far too pale, a little terrified, though who wouldn’t be, but at the same time determined-

“No. Angus, _no_ , don’t you _dare_ \- it’s not - _honey please!_ ” James finds himself reduced to begging and praying, to any higher powers that might hear him. Angus thinks he’s going to die, is so sure of it that he’s now turned to reassuring his father instead, trying to make sure that he feels no guilt about the way things ended. James knows with absolute certainty that this is the worst moment of his life.

He can’t hear or see anything past his boy, past his Angus, including the screech of a siren from outside - because blood is starting to bubble up from unnaturally bluish lips, strings of red liquid that James tries frantically to brush away, until Angus’ hand shoots up to grab at his wrist and stills it in its motion. He looks half-gone already, nuzzling into James’ hand, clammy skin on clammy skin, _and_ _this wasn’t how it was supposed to go-_

“Sir, please - we need you to let go, let us do our job”, a far-away, unfamiliar voice cuts through the cotton bush of panic in James’ head, enough for him to slowly relax his death-grip on his son’s body and watch with wide eyes as Angus is lifted from his arms. Someone asks him a question, about what happened, and he answers mechanically, recounts all the important key points - but it grates in his ears. Nothing will ever be able to describe what it felt like holding his son in his arms for the first time in fifteen years and watch him choke on his own blood. 

He tries to scramble up after the stretcher carrying Angus, but finds his legs won’t support his weight. He can’t - he needs to go, he’s being ridiculous, Angus is the hurt one, it’s not even James’ blood coating his hand, no discernible reason as to why- 

That’s how Matty finds him, a minute later at most. He has to blink her into focus, her gentle, worried voice tinny and indistinct. The warm touch of her hand on his arm is what helps him ground himself in reality again, in the rough fabric of the rug underneath his skin, and the sight of a tac team escorting the shooter away. 

“Oh James”, his oldest - maybe only - friend says, face open and troubled. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. If I’d known, I would’ve never-”

He cuts her off with a bitter laugh, breathing heavily as if he’s just run a marathon. He appreciates the sentiment, he does, but - it sounds so much like what he’d told his son just moments ago, and he can’t deal with that yet. “Not your fault, Matilda. Not even in the slightest. You didn’t know, and you didn’t shoot him.” _Or abandon him_ , he doesn't say. 

“Maybe”, she permits, already reaching to help him to his feet. “But I’m sorry all the same. Come ride with us to the hospital?”

James nods numbly, blinking down at the red coating his hands, his legs moving mechanically. All of a sudden, the ear-grating screech of sirens won’t leave him alone, even though they’ve long faded from hearing, out of reach along with his son. Maybe forever. 

God, it feels so - empty. Pointless. Wasted. If only this hadn’t been what it took for him to finally see clearly, to finally hold his son; if only. 


	3. Gun + Mac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: DELIBERATION OF SUICIDE, near attempt, Mac having some very dark thoughts; if that triggers you, please do not read. I repeat: this is DARK. if you find yourself having thoughts like this, talk to someone, seek help. <3 
> 
> No. 80: "Suicidal" + Mac

The night after their first mission back at the newly minted Phoenix Foundation under Russ Taylor, Mac can’t seem to fall asleep. 

It’s not an entirely novel phenomenon; some missions tend to follow you home, especially when something goes wrong. But that’s exactly why he can’t tell what’s keeping him tossing and turning tonight, because for all intents and purposes, today went perfectly. They swooped in, saved the day with minimal casualties, and got the team back together. It’s everything Mac’s dreamed about for the past months. 

He feels... empty, staring up at the same ceiling that’s kept him company all throughout DXS and the Phoenix and being a professor. It looks the exact same as it did last week and the week before that and every other week he can remember; dark pine wood, no scorch marks, all of those are in the kitchen and office room. Though he hasn’t added any new ones in a while. The house never seems to change these days, or really breathe, without Bozer in it. 

He thinks he should feel something, after another whole day of getting shot at and narrowly averting massive disaster. Mac’s been out of the game for a while - not much criminal intrigue in a chemistry classroom, at least not for him. But somehow, none of it seems to stick. It isn’t the near-death-experience that’s keeping him awake, he knows what that feels like. Pounding heart, gasping himself awake out of dreams, seeing play out over and over again. But he can’t see anything beyond the dark pine ceiling and the quiet of his room. 

Turning onto his side, he tries to blink the bedside table into focus. The motion drags the sheets down another inch on his ribcage, exposing overly warm skin to the cool night air. He feels goosebumps forming, an almost uncomfortably crawling sensation that spreads out over his entire body. Hands clench against the smooth fabric, and with a start Mac realises that those are his. 

What was he trying to do again? 

His thoughts move sluggishly, as if his neural pathways were suddenly set to a third of their usual conduction speed. How ironic. Can’t sleep, can’t think either. Can’t do anything right. _Can’t save your friends._ He’s parched. 

The soft padding of his naked soles across the floor is the only sound Mac can hear ring through the house. It’s almost eerie how he hasn’t gotten used to the silence yet - he still expects to see Bozer in the kitchen almost every morning, or Riley kicking back with Jack on the deck, or even just Desi shouting at him. He’d take it all in a heartbeat over this, over having to listen to his own thoughts on repeat. 

But it’s not like that anymore, and it never will again; the faster he accepts that, the better for everyone. There’s a pattern here, with people leaving, and what Mac should learn from it is to manage his expectations, because that’s the only part of it he can really control. 

Mac pays no conscious attention to the path he takes into the kitchen. The house’s layout is so familiar by now he could walk it in his sleep, has actually done so before, on the worst of nights when he’d been unable to feel safe enough to truly rest even in his sleep. Always used to curl up in the strangest of corners, and leave it to Jack to find him the morning after. When Jack was still around, anyways. His brain comes back online when he feels his hands slide across cool glass, and it’s only halfway through reaching for the tap that Mac freezes in place, realising suddenly that it’s not glass in his hands and he’s not in the kitchen at all. 

He’s holding one of Jack’s guns that’s supposed to be locked away in the top of the living room cabinet. 

Mac stares at the familiar metal in his hands. It’s one of Jack’s favourites, a Glock 19, sleek black and rough checkered grip frame underneath his fingers. He doesn’t remember if it’s loaded or not, but the safety is off, and Mac is almost completely certain it was on the last time he cleaned them. 

What is he doing here anyways? He came to get something. Or do something. _There’s a thought there somewhere, MacGyver-_

_Aren’t people supposed to leave a note with this kind of thing?_ , he thinks, seemingly out of nowhere, except that it feels like the natural progression in his thought process. What would he leave a note for? Who would he leave a note for? It’s not like anyone really cares, Mac thinks bitterly, the first hint of anything resembling an emotion he’s had excepting his quickly crushed hope at reuniting with his friends. 

Jack won’t even know about what happened until his return from the Kovacs mission. _If_ he returns from the Kovacs mission. With every day that passes, the glimmer of hope in Mac’s chest dims. Matty is used to losing agents, it comes with the job; she’ll be fine. Taylor’s barely known him for a full day. His father spent over a decade doing just fine without Mac, and the past ten months without trying to reach out at all. Is he giving Mac space, or a sign? The only time he ever made a considerable, self-driven effort to get to know his son was when they risked losing his skillset as an agent in the Phoenix, which James has no affiliations or interest in anymore. And the US government demonstrated how expendable Mac really is when they scrapped the entire operation and blacklisted them all. 

What about Riley and Desi? How would they react? With some degree of devastation, probably, because a life lost is always a tragedy, but when he thinks about it logically there really isn’t much of an immediate loss here. Conceptually, maybe. Factually, he hasn’t figured into their day-to-day routine for months now. What will his absence really detract from everyone’s lives? 

Mac doesn’t expect it to hurt as much as it does when he thinks of Bozer. His childhood best friend, the one constant who’s seen Mac and loved him anyways at all his highs and lows, his very best and very worst, who had stopped answering his calls two months into their lives without the Phoenix. He’d needed time to himself, to work through the pain of losing Leanna, and then things between Mac and Desi had gone to shit, and they’d grown apart, and then, and then-

And then Mac was alone. 

He still is. He’d hoped that Russ reinstating the Phoenix would bring back his old self, would fill that gaping black hole of loneliness and worthlessness in his chest, but Mac feels exactly as he did a week ago. Not even the temporary high of a mission could distract him for long. He used to be so proud of the way he cheated death, all the near-saves and creative rescues, but now all Mac feels when he thinks of how closely he scraped by is a sense of deep, all-encompassing disappointment. 

His finger twitches on the trigger. Uniform grey is all he’s been able to see in his future for far too long now. It used to be fraught with possibility, excitement, but what does he really have left except friends who don’t really like him and a job that could do without him? At least this way something would finally change. He can see it all playing out in front of his eyes; he’d lift it to his temple, feel the nozzle digging into his skin. The shot would ring out loud and jarring through the house, finally something to disrupt all the blasted greyness and sameness of everything around him with a splatter of vivid re-

Mac blinks. He’s still holding the gun in his hand, hasn't moved it even an inch. Does he really want to do this? God, how he wishes someone would give him an easy answer, a clear yes or no, take the choice out of his hands. Surely there’s got to be some kind of meaning to it when it happens. Something more than just his pathetic moping. So many people have died in his name, so much pain-

_And so many people have lived because of you._ For a second, he almost believes there’s someone in the room with him, but not a single floorboard creaks. He’s still staring down at the gun. _You’re worth more than the things you’ve achieved, Mackie. You deserve to be alive just because. You deserve to enjoy being alive too._

Mac swallows heavily, throat still as dry and grating like sandpaper. Suddenly he remembers the water he wanted to get. “Ch-charlie?”

No one answers, of course. Because Charlie’s gone. Because of Ma-

Because of Mason. 

_He lost himself and all his humanity, lived a half-life of revenge and past tragedies. I don’t want to lose you to the same line of tragedies, Mac._

His cheeks feel strangely wet, like he’s been crying. Mac hasn’t noticed until now. But it’s true, isn’t it? He’s losing himself to things that ultimately were out of his control. He didn’t ask to be captured in Afghanistan, or for his father to send in an unit after him, or for it to be Mason’s son’s unit, or for the man to go insane in his need to assign guilt. If all of that isn’t his fault, what else isn’t? 

He can’t control whether other people want to stay in his life or not, but he can decide to pull this trigger. 

Mac puts the gun back in the cabinet. He gets his glass of water. 

(When he checks five days later, in the middle of a sunny afternoon, he sees that the magazine was empty all along.)


	4. Bozer + Mac + Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No. 37: "Escape" + Mac + Bozer
> 
> contains: car crash, mentions of torture, Bozer putting his film-knowledge to good/terrible use, u decide!!! :) some bozer nd Mac feels
> 
> I absolutely ADORE writing other people rescuing Mac on missions (and esp Bozer) for one simple reason: it doesn't happen often enough. a side-effect of his captain america-esque portrayal is also that the others don't really get much of their own badass screen time, and I. am. here. to CHANGE THAT!! tho after this bozer probably wouldn't ever see this end of a steering wheel or idea again. but it worked so

Working at the Phoenix Foundation and entering the world of clandestine government activity has taught Bozer many interesting things about life. He’d even like to say that he learns something new every day, no matter how cheesy that sounds - today, that thing is that driving with a gunshot wound in your arm is nowhere near as easy as the movies make it look. 

Or maybe that’s just the almost hundred miles per hour at which he’s barrelling down along a narrow mountain road and the five cars hot on their tail with machine guns. 

He can barely even hear the mechanic drilling sound of bullets pinging off their humvee, as he thinks Mac called it, though most of his conscious thought process is focused on keeping them from swerving straight down the steep side of the mountain cliff to their left. Bozer’s not a bad driver by any means, at least compared to Mac, and he’d once said that LA traffic prepares you for pretty much everything in life, but obviously failed to take this scenario into consideration at the time. LA traffic does _not_ prepare you for a high-speed mountain car chase with weapon’s smugglers determined to blow you to tiny little pieces, no ma’am. 

A quick glance into the rearview mirror tells Bozer nothing except that he should push his foot down a little further on the gas pedal, because Car Number One has gained on them a little. His heart lurches along with the whole car when he only barely scrapes by the next curve, hitting a rock in the road that sends the entire left side airborne for one hot, terrifying second, before it slams back into the ground and jostles Bozer along in his seat. He grinds his teeth through it, but Mac doesn’t have that same luxury, judging by the loud whimper that comes from the passenger seat. 

He chances a look sideways and almost loses control of the vehicle in his violent double-take, tearing his eyes back onto the road forcibly, lest he make their pursuer’s jobs a whole lot easier by crashing them straight into the mountainside. Or down along it. 

“Man, what the _hell_ are you doing?! Put that down!” Keeping your voice cool and in a deep, manly baritone instead of the shrill screech Bozer’s comes out as is also a lot harder than the movies make it look, he notes absent-mindedly. But he can’t help the way his stomach churns as he remembers the gruesome sight of his friend’s pale, drawn face, sweat-soaked and breathing coming fast and hard as he tries desperately to keep whatever he’s fiddling with in place with both of his wrists, fingers mangled almost beyond recognition.

“C-can’t, Boze, I need to - need to - bomb, get them off our tail - “, it’s a weak thing, so quiet Bozer almost doesn’t catch it over the screeching of the engine and the steady rain of bullets, heart clenching painfully in his chest. They’d been taken almost twenty-four hours ago, sneaking out of the group’s compound with a flash drive of evidence that would incriminate each and every one of its members _plus_ the Secretary of Defence. Jack and Riley got out in time; Mac and Bozer did not. They broke Mac’s fingers first, and then waterboarded him, because he wouldn’t stop making a nuisance of himself. Drawing their attention away from Bozer.

His hands hurt from how hard he grips the steering wheel. 

Bozer wants to turn and shout at Mac to stop, stop hurting himself for Bozer, it’s only going to make his injuries worse, but then he catches the glint of sun reflecting off the glossy black hoods of the seven cars that shoot around the corner, wrenching the steering wheel left just in time to avoid a heads-on collision and slamming his foot onto the brake in a screeching stop instead. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of panic that reaches a crescendo when he hears Mac’s soft moan of pain and sees how he’s crumpled against the inside of his door, having dropped whatever he was trying to convert into a bomb to the floor. 

_Okay, Double-O-Boze_ , he thinks to himself, head whipping around to stare at the wall of black cars and SUVs blocking off the road on his side, _at least there was a lucky rocky outcrop you could drive onto. Now just think, there’s gotta be a way out of this._

He scans the people slowly exiting their cars, still pointing at them with machine guns, and notes the absence of masks that reveals harsh sneers and meaty grimaces. No point in keeping your identity a secret if you’re just going to kill everyone who could talk instead, he supposes. At least they got the bulletproof vehicle; that should buy them some time. 

Just as he thinks it, Bozer’s eyes flit to what seems to be the leader’s belt, and the objects he’s palming on it. Heart dropping down into his stomach, he feels his eyes grow wide. “Uhh, Mac, how long will a bulletproof car hold up against a grenade?”

He turns back around, chest clenching when he sees how Mac’s head lolls forward, seemingly no strength left in his neck or spine to hold him upright. His own chest aches in sympathy, mottled with painful bruises from his own round of beating just a few hours ago. 

“Not - ah, not very long”, Mac mumbles, pupils blown wide and dazed as he frowns in an effort to concentrate. Bozer spits out a quiet curse when he catches the dried blood matting his hair, somehow having missed his best friend’s probably concussion all the way through their escape. Then again, the spontaneous mountain rodeo probably didn’t help. “’s not - it’s bulletproof, not - grena- grenade proof.” His eyes flutter weakly, face going slack on a weak moan. 

Bozer surges forward, lifting Mac back against his seat carefully as panic thrums through his veins - his arm throbs painfully in tandem with his heartbeat, an annoying distraction he can’t afford. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals that the smugglers are still discussing among themselves; probably debating whether to cut their losses or go for a second round of interrogation. He turns his attention back to Mac. 

“Come on, man, don’t do this to me, come on-”, he murmurs frantically, slapping gently at Mac’s cheeks the way he’s seen Jack do once or twice before. His friend twitches weakly, but his eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused as they are; his breath is flat, but it’s still there, and that’s all that matters right now. 

“Alright, Mac, got any genius plans to get us out of here?”, he asks, trying hard to keep his voice some semblance of calm and even. It doesn’t work; Bozer’s shaking worse than a leaf in a hurricane, gulping heavily when he looks down at Mac’s limp fingers again. He thinks he catches a hint of white bone through the broken skin of his knuckles. 

Mac jolts underneath his hands, blinking heavily as if the daylight were hurting his eyes. It probably is; Bozer got a concussion once, back in fifth grade, when he got hit in the head by a football. The crunch of a skull against concrete is far more sickening, as he can now attest. His friend frowns heavily, opens his mouth to say something - and then his jaw slackens on a pitiful whine. 

_Shit, shit, shit, okay - looks like I’m gonna have to MacGyver our way out of this myself,_ Bozer thinks frantically, throwing another look over his shoulder. Those machine guns are no longer pointed at the ground, he needs to come up with something now, head whirling around to look back at Mac, he needs to - 

He needs to look at what’s right in front of him, use what he has. Bozer blinks slowly at the cliff in front of them. _Oh._ He deliberates for a fraction of a second at most, and then makes his decision. 

“Mac, I’ve got a plan to get us out of here”, he mutters, gently strapping his friend into his seatbelt while upsetting his fingers as little as possible. “Don’t worry, Double-O-Boze’s got your back.”

He’s already reversed their car, throwing it back into drive pointed straight at the cliffside when his friend stirs, a confused mumble of something that might be “wh’t’re you doin’?”

Bozer looks at his friend who’s slowly turning his head between him and the open air in front of them, still frowning hard as if he were trying to solve a complicated puzzle. He rolls his shoulders back against his seat, breathing surprisingly slow and easy for the situation at hand. “Uh, we-ell - do you remember The Fast and The Furious 7?”

Mac’s blue eyes grow wide, the diameter of his pupils blown uneven. Definitely concussed, then, which the slur in his words only adds to. His hand flies out to thump frantically against Bozer’s chest, and he doesn’t even flinch, despite how it must’ve jarred his fingers. “That’s _crazy!_ ”

Taking a light hold of Mac’s wrist and placing it back into his lap, Bozer winces, throwing another glance through the back window, and immediately whirling back around to place his hands on the wheel. “And _that’s_ a _grenade_ , we’re taking the chance!”

Bozer doesn't know whether his indistinct, high-pitched screaming ever makes it into words against Mac’s hoarse, panicked yell of his name, but as he pushes the gas pedal all the way into the floor and jolts the car into an abrupt forwards motion, straight into the open sky, he can think only one thing. _You’re my best friend, man, I love you. Thank you for being here with me._

And then they shoot out over the edge of the cliff, careening into empty space, a weightless descent - until the car tilts forward and reality hits them like a rocky grey mountainside right to the windshield.

* * *

The next thing Bozer remembers somewhat clearly is a pleasant, floating sensation. He’s wrapped in a warm cocoon of something, mind moving somewhere around five miles an hour through thick sludge. His fingers twitch weakly against something that feels smooth yet grates worse than nails across a chalkboard, and with a small frown, he stops the motion. _Don’t like that._

Pleasant humming sounds in his ears, low and static, undisturbed by- 

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Bee-_

“-llo, Boze, you with me? Blink once for yes and twice for no.” Slowly, Bozer’s eyes flutter open, bright light of his surroundings blocked out by a dark, indistinct shape leaning over him. A much thinner, elongated shape rises alongside it, wiggling strangely - “Alright, that was way more than one or two blinks. C’mon, man, gimme somethin’ to work with.”

Slowly, the blur starts taking form, until he can make out the triangular shape of a grey faux-hawk, followed by a familiar frown and brown eyes, broad cut of a jaw, lips twitching into a tiny smile - _Jack?_

“There he is!” Jack grins down at him, slowly lowering the hand he'd raised in a little wave. He looks even less put-together than usually, chin covered in stubble that’s almost thick enough to pass as a full beard and dark rings underneath his eyes. The smile slowly fades from his face again. “Gave us one hell of a scare, gettin’ captured like that. And what the hell was your little joyride all about, you mistake a car for a plane?”

Frowning against the fuzz covering his thoughts, Bozer tries to make sense of Jack’s words. The mention of a plane tickles something loose, something about an open sky and flying, but Bozer’s never learned how to, even if Leanna insisted it’d be fun, too scared of crashing them by - accident. Or design. Which he did. 

“Furious 7″, he croaks out, throat dry and cracked, followed by a little cough. The expression on Jack’s face morphs from worry and concern into something that Bozer wishes desperately he could capture on camera, sheer bewilderment at its most elemental spreading right across for him to see. He gapes, eyes blown wide and disbelieving, and Bozer can’t help but chuckle weakly. Not even Mac’s ever gotten that look out of Jack. 

“Oh, oh no, you crazy little bastard - I can’t believe that fucking worked! You got’sta be the luckiest idiots to ever walk the damn earth, you and Mac, I swear - “, he groans, rubbing a hand across his eyes, and Bozer frowns again in deep thought. Where is Mac? Did he-

“Doin’ just fine he is, no need to worry, hoss, right beside you”, Jack soothes, voice soft and low once again. He exhales in bone-deep, all-encompassing relief, shivering slightly at the memory of how his best friend had looked in that car, beaten and bloodied, almost beyond recognition. God, Bozer wouldn’t have known what to do if he hadn’t made it out alive. “Now, I’d tell you to take a look for yourself, but you kinda can’t with that neck brace.”

“’s okay”, Bozer slurs, eyes already fluttering closed again as the heavy blanket of sleep starts to pull him back under. “Trust you.”

A soft chuckle and Jack’s rumbling voice is the last thing he hears. “Yeah, well, that’s what I like to hear. I’m glad you’re still around, buddy, but maybe don’t ever do that again. Leave the ideas to the idea guy, huh?”

And that’s just fine by Bozer. As long as Mac’s still alive to do it, he’ll gladly let him make all the plans and decisions from now on. 


	5. Mac + Jack + Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no. 20: "Apology" + mac
> 
> contains: Punisher!AU, Jack Dalton as Frank Castle, MacDalton, they have two adopted kiddos in this, torture mention, gory murder mention, PTSD, Jack’s done some very bad things, mention of violence against their kids and ensuing PTSD but they’re safe now
> 
> look ok am I just writing aus of tv shows I binge now? maybe.

Ironically enough, Jack’s never felt his PTSD worse than when everything seems to fall into place again. 

He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night, and not in catnaps all over the house; sometimes, the kids wake up screaming. Jack is usually already hovering by their door when they do, and waiting for the faint thumping of Mac’s footsteps down the hall. 

Seeing his husband in the flesh after almost a year and a half feels... well, it feels like a gut punch, if Jack’s honest. Not bad, necessarily, just incredibly surreal. He has to blink himself out of a stupor every time, consciously think about the act of breathing to keep doing it. Looking at Mac brings a myriad of conflicting emotions all at once; relief that he’s still alive. Worry at the gauntness of his face and the waxiness of his skin. Pain at the memories still so vivid in Jack’s mind. Love. Utter rage and the urge to kill the bastards who did this to them all over again. 

Oftentimes, Mac can’t sleep either. Some of those nights he spends pacing swiftly up and down his - _their_ \- bedroom. Others, he joins Jack on the couch, where he’s made his own temporary sleeping quarters, and they sit together in silence until the sun rises or the kids need them. Tonight, it’s the latter. What takes Jack utterly by surprise is Mac breaking their religiously upheld silence. 

“Couch can’t be good for your back.” He speaks it more into the empty air in front of him than to Jack, voice quiet and rough in a way that has Jack sparing an absentminded thought to making sure Mac drinks more water. Clearing his throat against the scratchiness itching it raw, he thinks it might do him some good too. “Ain’t the worst thing I’ve done to my back in the past year.”

Mac huffs quietly, and then the silence stretches again. When Jack shifts to throw a sideways glance at his husband, he finds himself unable to look away, chest clenching and twisting the way it always does these days. Mac’s blonde hair is cropped shorter than Jack can ever remember seeing, even in the army; when they’d rescued him, it had been grown well past shoulder length. 

(He remembers finding him in the bathroom only a day after their return, sobbing quietly as he took wild, uncoordinated chops at it with a pair of scissors that shook so hard Jack had been scared he’d maim himself doing it. That was three weeks ago.)

Mac releases a harsh breath through his nose, muscles shifting underneath the pale skin as he clenches his jaw. It looks even more ghost-like in the moonlight than it does during the day. “I’m - I wouldn’t mind, you know. If you came back. With me.” On the last sentence, he finally looks over at Jack, who’s already shaking his head. 

“No, no, that’s - that ain’t a good idea, hoss”, he rasps, hands clenching into loose fists against his lap. Mac looks so small next to him, blue eyes wide and hurt, almost drowning in Jack’s Black Sabbath hoodie. He can make out the sharp jut of his shoulder sticking out even through the thick material. “I get - you know I get them nightmares, and I can’t risk hurtin’ you. I’m fucked up, Mac, real bad.”

Mac’s scoff is a sharp, humourless sound, and Jack prays to all the gods he’s ever even heard off that the suspicious shine to his eyes aren’t tears. “Jack, I get them too. Pretty much every night, in fact.”

God, of course Jack knows, he never fucking stops knowing, can see the outline of his love burned into the inside of his eyelids even when he presses them closed to inhale sharply. Not even the tiny starburst that explode in every which colour can erase it, and when he blinks them open again Mac is looking at him with a mixture of that damn empty hauntedness and fragile hope that almost takes him out right on the spot. “That’s - it ain’t the same, hoss. You’re not - I’m - “

_A monster._

“You’re what, Jack?”, Mac questions softly, shifting closer only the tiniest bit but still drawing a barely restrained moan from Jack, whose entire frame hunches in on himself, skin buzzing where he can feel the phantom heat of Mac’s closeness, unable to tear his gaze away from the sheer earnestness in those blue eyes. “You’re my husband? The man I love?”

His breathing comes hard and fast, heartbeat thrumming with something between panic and excitement and utter fear, powerless in the face of this one man. Mac’s voice stays gentle, soft in all the ways Jack doesn’t deserve, and he doesn’t touch but he’s close enough for it almost not to matter, eyes tracing the outlines of Jack’s face, his trembling bottom lip, his tear-filled eyes. “What’s going on, Jack? Talk to me, please”, he whispers, and Jack hates himself for putting that begging note in his voice. 

Flexing his hand into the shape of a fist over and over again, Jack sighs deeply as he stares at the tendons moving. “I’m - I’m not the same man I was, hoss”, he rasps. “I’ve done things. Terrible things.”

“You mean as the Punisher?” Head snapping up, Jack stares at Mac with wide eyes, fear pounding against the inside of his chest so hard he can almost taste it. His husband’s look is considering, but open, not a smidge of judgement that he can find, not even fear, and there _should be._

“You - you know?”, Jack whispers, almost unable to get the words past his lips, exhaling a shuddering breath when Mac only nods. It’s like all the strings still holding him up are cut at once, and he sags forward, hands wrapping around the back of his head to dig harsh fingertips into the buzzcut. “God I’m - I’m sorry, Mac, I’m so fucking sorry.”

For a long moment, only Jack’s hitching sobs fill the silence, and the dam breaks. “I’m a monster, hoss, a fucking monster, I killed so many people, hunted them down and took my sweet time - when they s-shot you and the - you and the kids, I just... I couldn’t take it, I lost the human part of myself. I stood there at your graves and all I could fuckin’ think about was making them _pay,_ and I did. I did.” He’s rocking back and forth minutely, barks out a breathless, harsh laugh that grates even in his own ears. “They was fuckin’ terrified of me, hoss, just when I took off my jacket and showed them that skull, tried beggin’ and pleadin’, even made ‘em apologise, say sorry to you and the kids, and then I shot ‘em anyways. Or beat them, or slit their throats. Didn’t matter that it wouldn’t bring you back, all I cared about was makin’ sure every last piece of shit who even dared think your names was six feet under.”

Jack can feel the pull of his own wheezing breath in his chest, dark carpet blurring through the tears dripping from his eyes. In the past year and a half, he’s killed a hundred and seventy-six people, almost double the count of his entire career in the army and CIA combined. And he’d made sure to savour every last one, burn the numbers and faces into his brain as he watched his mental list shrink and shrink and shrink. He’d never thought of what they’d think of him, back then - Mac or the kids. What they’d say. Because they’d been dead, and it hadn’t mattered, and Jack would be joining them soon, once the work was done. Without it, he’d have shot himself the same night still, he thinks. 

“What did you do to the people who shot Isaac and Lisa?” Jack’s reply comes almost immediately, voice even and dead, unlike the near unrecognisable crying from before. He doesn’t move, too scared to see the last of Mac’s respect shatter into tiny pieces. “Hung them on meathooks, with the bunch of pigs they were. Watched them die. They suffered.”

He remembers it, with picture-perfect clarity; it had taken almost twenty minutes for both the shooters to stop twitching. He’d stood there and waited it out, stare heavy and unbroken, watching them choke and gurgle on their blood, the sharp metal impaled through their chests. Jack remembers smiling when he walked away, for the first time since he’d watched his family supposedly die.

“Good.”

Head whipping up so fast it almost causes a crick in his neck, Jack stares up at Mac with wide eyes, still breathing hard. But his husband looks cool as ever, more composed than he’s seemed since the rescue. Why, why, why isn’t he running, protecting himself, _he doesn’t understand-_ “No, hoss”, Jack pleads, dragging clammy palms over his stubbled face harshly, “You don’t understand, I’m a monster-”

“I’m not the same person I was before either, Jack”, Mac cuts him off, gentle but decisive, and that alone is enough to shock Jack into silence, letting him continue. For a second, his eyes seem almost unfocused, like he’s seeing something far away that Jack can’t, lips twitching into a self-deprecating little smile. The bags underneath his eyes are heavy and dark. “I didn’t think I had it in me to hate someone, or want to kill them, but - but I watched those people intimidate, mistreat and even shoot our children for more than a year, and... and I wanted to rip them all apart. I’m glad you did, Jack, and I’m not ashamed to say that.” He laughs weakly, and Jack winces, both at his words and the sound, because Isaac and Lisa are only eight and ten respectively, and Jack got shot the first time at twenty years old. “Besides, with the amount of bombs they had me build, I probably killed even more people than you did in that time. Innocent people.”

Shaking his head against the words, Jack shifts closer almost unconsciously, not even registering the way his thigh almost touches Mac’s but for a scant millimetre of air between them. Nothing exists but the tremble of Mac’s bottom lip at that moment, the guilt in his eyes, and the pit of swirling self-hatred in Jack’s gut. He wants so desperately to touch, but recoils at the thought of seeing those bloodied hands on Mac’s skin. “No, Mac, that wasn’t - not your fault, baby”, he whispers, feels the skip in his heartbeat at the gasp the petname elicits. “You did that to protect our kids. I did it... I did it because I wanted to. Nobody forced me to do shit, darlin’. It just felt good.”

“But... I don’t care, Jack”, Mac rasps, and god, this can’t be happening, Jack doesn’t get to have a happy ending after what he’s done, especially not one who looks at him with such beautifully trusting, broken blue eyes, tear tracks trailing down along gaunt cheekbones. “I’m... Jack, please?”

The need in Mac’s eyes and voice has Jack moving before he can even think to, sinking off the couch and onto the floor in one smooth movement, without even groaning at the strain it puts on his now even more fucked-up knee. He slots himself between Mac’s slightly parted thighs, presses his own body against the shaking frame in front of him, and slowly buries his head in the dark material of Mac’s hoodie, wrapping his arms around him with a care that feels almost unfamiliar. Cold, trembling fingers settle against the buzzed back of his head, calloused and stick-thin, and Jack’s hands clench around the thin sheet bunched up behind Mac’s back with the force of his emotions. 

Slowly, he leans back, can’t help the way he tilts his head further into the touch, even though he knows he should pull away. But when has Jack ever been able to deny Mac anything? Looking at him like this, seeing the fragile, shaky pull at his cracked and dry lips, being able to trace every arch and every dimple and every birthmark when he’d thought it lost forever-

Between one blink and the next, Mac is touching gentle fingers to the crooked bridge of Jack’s nose, smoothing his right thumb down along its length to press into the tip of it before he lets his hand drop and rest on his shoulder again. “That looks painful.”

It was. And the reason for it even more so; he’d gotten it in a fistfight with one of their very own Phoenix tac team members who’d turned out to be a mole and the first casualty of Jack’s personal crusade, dumped in a Boston construction site with his head bashed in and no one the wiser. He can’t find it in himself to tell Mac, to break that rosy picture of their lives before, reveal the severity of betrayal-

Warmth blooms across Jack’s mouth, a dry, tactile warmth that has him freezing up, eyes fluttering closed more on instinct than anything else, feeling the slide of Mac’s hands along the sides of his face and the gentle movement of his lips and the faint puff breath against his cheek and how easy it is to sink right in, kiss back and fit his hands flat against the rumpled material of the jumper.

He couldn’t say for the life of him how long it lasts, only that when he leans back slowly and forces his eyelids open again, Mac’s smile looks even more beautiful in the faint golden shine of the sunrise. He still looks like a single stiff breeze could blow him over, like he spends more time having nightmares than actually sleeping, but when his eyes drag over Jack’s stubbled, damaged face, all he does is smile and ask once more whether he’ll give his back a break from the couch, and Jack- 

Jack does.


End file.
